


Moments in a Lifetime

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The simple moments of Bran's life were shared with his friend, but Will slowly slipped away from him.--"I had neighbors and a pet and knew the mailman by first name.  Will had none of these."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments in a Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Aspen

 

 

Title: Moments in a Lifetime

Recipient: Aspen (lj user `silveraspen')

Fandom: The Dark is Rising Series

Genre: Drama, angst

Notes: Post-books, 1st PPOV (Bran)

Song credits: 100 Years by Five for Fighting

~*~*~*~*~

(I'm 15 for a moment

Caught in between 10 and 20

And I'm just dreaming

Counting the ways to where you are)

It was chilly, especially if you were caught in the thick, misty fog. The breeze that herded the fog onward, towards the foot of the mountains, was full of sea and spring storms yet to come. The sun, too, was putting up a fight; slashing through any gap in the cloud cover and gleaming golden swatches of promise over the rain-glistening grass.

The majority of their flock was grouped together on the west side of the valley, where the grass seemed to be sweeter, at least for the moment.

I heard the `sh-ck!sh-ck!sh-ck!' of footsteps in the tall grass and mud behind me, it was him, though I didn't know that at that moment. Not until he spoke.

"Oh. Ugh. I hope that was mud I just stepped in," he said.

I laughed and turned. He tried to look disgusted as he wiped the offended shoe on a thick patch of grass. It only lasted a moment, then he was laughing, too. We both strode to meet the other, shook hands, hugging and pounding each other's backs, like we'd seen our fathers do. Somehow it was okay to hug other men if you landed a few hits in the process.

Really, it was a game to us, imitating our elders and seeing who would flinch first. But then we settled down, finding a crop of rocks that weren't too moss covered or damp and talked about how much life had gone by.

Things had changed, strangely enough. It always seemed that nothing changed in the world I lived in. I could live without a clock or calendar in the eternal rhythm of sheep and school work, my dad's stern religious devotion and Caradog Prichard's cantankerous attitude, practicing the harp with Mrs. Evans on cold nights and John Rowland's Land-Rover driving up every Sunday afternoon. The Evans had him for Sunday supper, ever since his wife had tragically passed away in an accident three years before. It was an endless cycle of the known and the comfortable, and I never wanted it to change.

Even in a simple life, though, time does take it's toll. Nothing lasts forever, not even mountains, as rain and wind even so slowly grind them down.

The intervening years between Will's last visit, with his friends, the Drew siblings, in tow, we had both moved into secondary schools. This was more of a challenge to me than him; his primary and secondary schools had the same students throughout, besides those who moved into the area. Though, he swore that the boys and girls all acted like completely different people as they grew into adolescence.

I had already transferred out of the local school system once prior to our first meeting to attend the grammar school in the next town. The secondary school shipped all the children who still had interest and whose parents didn't need them on the farm to an even more distant town, were children of age all over the region formed the largest school I had ever been in by a good margin. This forced me to deal with people that for the children in my area, thought I was a snob for attending a grammar school and for the others, had never seen an albino before. I was the outsider of outsiders. I had given a lot of thought to quitting and working, but my father and Mr. Evans, not to mention John Rowlands, would hear nothing of it.

"I am completely out-numbered by people who know what's best for me," I finish up my discourse.

Will laughed, nodding sympathetically. He said he knew how that was, coming from such a large family.

He had changed, though only superficially. Taller, but then so was I. Broader shouldered and his straight brown-blonde hair was taking a definite turn to brown. There was a sharpening of his facial features as well, but only if you looked closely, otherwise he still had a rather round face for a slim boy in the throws of puberty.

He was talking about going to his disco and how he stepped on his partner's feet and spilled punch on his dress shirt when I realized he was fifteen. Then it truly sunk in: I was fifteen. It sounds stupid, but it was one of those moments where you realize you're already living your life.

Children think their lives won't really begin until they grow up. Until then they are free, untouched by anything and everything, including time.

The race to find ourselves and our way in life was already started. My heart raced a little with thoughts of what I could do, where I could go, the future lay before me like the now sun-strewn valley we watched over. Shepherd's caution, though, reminded me that though the grassy land looked about as heavenly as Earth could get, there were still lingering mists rolling the landscape and concealing dangers and predators unknown. The choices we would be faced with soon would be the same.

The weight of this knowledge sat on my mind heavily for a moment; then Will laughed, and I remembered us as twelve-year-olds again, when we were off to explore and find ourselves a new adventure. We wouldn't be twelve again, but then, we wouldn't be fifteen again either.

I was content with that.

***

(I'm 22 for a moment

She feels better than ever

And we're on fire

Making our way back from Mars)

I was in love. Lord Almighty, was I! Her name was Ingelaurie, she went to the same university. My feet may have been on earth, but my head and heart soared among the stars and I probably showed it, by the stupid grin on my face.

When Will visited that year he laughed at me, but when I asked him to explain what was funny, he wouldn't give me a straight reply. He only said that he understood: I must take after my father in matters of the heart. For moment I vaguely remembered John Rowlands telling us about how my father had thought my mother hung the moon and the stars dimmed against her beauty. I think it was his way of saying I was a lovesick puppy dog, without actually saying it.

Then he went go on to say I'd better treat my girl right and asked how life in the new town was going. And we talked and laughed.

It was another moment in my life where I had an epiphany. I had something wonderful.

"I'm going to ask her to marry me," I blurted out, startling myself more than Will.

Of course, it seemed things no longer startled Will these days. He smiled and slapped my back. "Good for you, Bran! Congratulations!"

"But you don't know if she'll agree yet," I protested, the excitement of my boldness quickly retreating before my fear of rejection.

"She will," he said, with such utter confidence I could only nod and believe him.

I was going to marry the girl of my dreams. She'd say `yes', she'd look beautiful in her wedding dress, and Will would be my Best Man.

"Would--"

"Of course, I'd be delighted to be your Best Man."

"How did you know I was going to ask you?"

"We're best friends, Bran." Will said, then a glint of mischief flickered in his blue eyes, "Besides, I didn't know until you just confirmed it."

"God! You and your angelic face." I punched his shoulder in mock disgust. "You should be studying to be a lawyer, not a merchant."

"Import and export distributor, Bran. `Merchant' is rather archaic," Will laughed. "And how goes the convoluted world of Political Science?"

The face I made was the exact opposite of my lovesick grin. "Not very well." I sighed. "I don't think politics are right for me, after all."

"Giving up on ruling the world, then? Or at least all of Britain?" Will teased for a moment, then sobered. He sat up straight and looked at Bran with the full force of his gaze. "You're young, Bran, change your degree--it's not like it's written in stone. If you're not happy, find something you love and follow it."

My heart constricted for a moment; politics had been a subtle thrill of mine since childhood. I liked leading people, helping them. I relaxed once again and shook my head. "Just listen to you! `You're young'--as if we are twenty years apart! Well then, old man, what would you suggest I go into?"

"History," was the instant reply.

I opened my mouth to joke again, but then sat back. "History," I repeated. It sounded nice, great even.

***

(I'm 33 for a moment

Still the man, but you see I'm a `they'

A kid on the way

A family on my mind)

Things moved fast. Faster than I wanted, but not fast enough at times. Years past and after `Laurie's and I graduated, we finally married. Then we scrambled to find our lives together. Supporting ourselves, finding jobs, dealing with all the little things that life threw and kicked and spit at us. Somehow we came out alright, too.

I wasn't exactly sure how things came to fall into place, but I was very thankful. I didn't question my happiness too closely, as if afraid that doing so would draw unwanted attention. Attention from whom or what, I didn't know, but in the back of my head some of that sheepherder's old superstition lingered; not to mention the eccentricities of history professors with minors in mythology and British legend. Who, I must defend, still weren't quite as jumpy as theatrical professors, but may have about the same imagination.

I lived, I loved, I worked. Still, there were some things I didn't work hard enough at. I regret them, but at the time I thought that was just the way things went. Will and I grew apart in our twenties, he came for the wedding and was exactly as I remembered. He had changed even less between twenty-two and twenty five than he did between twelve and fifteen.

At thirty-three, he reminded me of a student rather than my best friend.

He walked into my office with barely a knock or a call of greeting.

I sat, on the opposite side of my paper-strewn desk, three reference books in my lap, and stared. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, and coughed. He was dressed nicely, in a suit that fit his sturdy frame well. He had stopped growing just two inches shorter than me, but had hardier musculature, so that people often thought we were the same height. His dark brown hair was shorter than I had even seen it, cut in a modern style that `Laurie probably would have described as `feathery'. It looked good on him and made his still boyish look a little less round. He still looked like he had never touched a blade to his chin, but his eyes were now encased behind round glasses. Overall, he looked like a boy dressed up to look like a man. His uncertainty didn't help.

"I can come back...if you're busy," he made to leave and I stood, dumping the thick books onto the floor with a lack of respect that I would normally wince at. They were completely out of my mind, though.

I rushed to greet him, pulling him to the worn couch I had inherited with the office. It smelt slightly like old leaves and coffee, but was still very comfortable. Will relaxed into the worn polyester like he had sat there a hundred times before.

We fell back into our old friendship as if ten years hadn't past since we'd last seen each other. I told him about the frustrations of university politics and we laughed on the irony of politics haunting me into my true profession. I told him about my father and how he had finally retired from herding on the Evans' farm, though I suspected he knew already. We both were quiet when he said he had sent flowers for Mr. Rowland's funeral. He had been out of the country at the time and unable to make it.

Unable to stand the glum atmosphere, I took a deep breath and blurted out my latest news. "I'm a father! Douglas Arthur Davies." I took his wide smile as encouragement and went on. "Dad was disappointed that I didn't name the baby after him--Douglas was Ingelaurie's grandfather, you remember?--but he said it was a very fitting name. `Laurie says it's what she should have suspected, having married a History major."

We laughed together and talked for long hours and finally parted again, promising to keep in touch. As I watched him get in his car, though, I had a feeling he was lying to me.

***

(I'm 45 for a moment

The sea is high

And I'm heading into a crisis

Chasing the years of my life)

A phone call, on my birthday, was the second best gift I received in my adult life. Gwion, the dog my wife and son had given me four years before, was the best.

"Hey, stranger!" I mocked into the handset. `Laurie had answered the phone, as was the norm at our house on the weekends, since if I answered to the University calling, I usually got reeled into work. Her startled exclamation and excitement amplified mine as she passed the phone to me with a kiss on my cheek, called Gwion out of the room, and shut the door behind them. I could hear Doug asking questions about the commotion, but `Laurie was handling the boy as well. I was a lucky man.

"Hey to you, too!" the familiar voice called back. Will still had that smooth tenor-baritone, still warm and confident. I wondered if he still sang like he did when he was younger. I remember the few times I had heard him and had been amazed.

We went through the natural rounds of `How are you?', `Still working there?', and `How's the family?'. I was sad to hear he still hadn't found someone for him yet, he was happy that things were going well for me. His work still had him traveling a lot. His father had Alzheimer's and was deteriorating slowly, but other than that and Mary's treatment for cancer last year, things were okay.

A tug of worry hit me suddenly. I was no longer a young man, well on the way to being old, actually, with a family and a job that tied me to one place. I had neighbors and a pet and knew the mailman by first name. Will had none of these.

"Why don't you settle down somewhere, Will?" I asked suddenly. "Don't you want to be someone?"

Will replied dryly, "I am someone."

"I mean...don't you ever feel that you could be more? That you could be part of something bigger, like a family of your own?"

"Maybe I will be," he replied, his voice strangely distant, "but I like who I am. I have no regrets, Bran."

The conversation lagged. That was it--we didn't have much in common any more, I knew, but it was still odd to feel the sudden weight of difference between us. The difference in our lifestyles and the people we had become.

But my heart reminded me, steadfastly, this is Will Stanton, same as he always has been.

I was content with that, because we had been friends for longer than Doug had been alive, or `Laurie and I had been married, or I had been a professor, or almost anything else in my life. There was comfort in that steadfast, unbreakable bond.

A comfort I didn't want to disturb. So when I reminded him that my house was always open, should he ever want to visit, and he promised he'd try, I squashed the stab of pain that knew he was lying. I believed him because it was Will and he'd be there if I really needed him.

That went without saying, and without doubt.

***

(Half time goes by

Suddenly you're wise

Another blink of an eye

67 is gone

The sun is getting high

We're moving on...)

Seventy-five and well respected, I accepted my award of honor and recognition from the university I had taught at for more than half my life. It was my last time sitting with the other professors and watching our students graduate, I was retiring after a long service. Some of my assistants joked it was more like a long reign.

I had reigned over something after all, Will, I thought. It was only classrooms and lecture halls and a scattering of books that had been published, but it was something. I had left my mark and I was fulfilled.

My son, now an adult and already a father himself, sat in the stands with my wife. They stood and cheered together when I was called forward and after I had made my brief speech of gratefulness to the University, my family, and my friends.

In the back of the crowds--not sitting down, separated from the student's milling families who were growing impatience for this pale old man to get on with the ceremony--was a familiar figure. My mouth continued without my full attention, as I had learned long ago to do, as a teacher. And my speech came to a close with me still squinting at the figure.

For a moment I thought it was Will. But it couldn't have been. He was wearing dark sunglasses and his hair was golden brown, like Will's had been when he was a child and we had first met. He looked younger than Douglas, his face strangely expressionless in a way I couldn't recall ever seeing on Will's face.

It still bothered me, though. And that night, after the celebration dinner and open house, I sat in my study with a pipe and tried to put it out of my mind by cruelly editing a badly researched Arthurian fiction, a best seller around the nation. Eventually it worked.

That night, though, I dreamed of Will as a child, with that blank face. I woke with a start. It wasn't the Will I had known and--there was another moment of realization--that was probably why I hadn't seen him in more than forty years. I didn't understand it, but I felt it.

My eyes gave one tear to that last thread of hope. I knew I'd never see him again.

***

(I'm 99 for a moment

Dying for just another moment

And I'm just dreaming

Counting the ways to where you are

15 there's still time for you

22 I feel her too

33 you're on your way

Every day's a new day...

15 there's still time for you

Time to buy and time to choose

Hey 15, there's never a wish better than this

When you only got 100 years to live)

"Let go when you need to, Dad," someone says, gently.

I hum my agreement. I feel so weak. My brain, though not as spry as it used to be, is more aware than I wish. It's my body that's failing. I'm dying; I know it, my son and his family know it, the doctors sure as hell know it.

No one, though, knows why I'm not gone yet.

"Am I intruding?" a new voice murmurs.

"Oh," Doug replies, uncertain as the stranger enters without waiting, "uh, do I know you?"

"Sorry," the stranger replies with a disarming smile, "I'm William Stanton."

"Oh," Doug repeats, then, "OH! Wow, you must be Will Stanton's...grandson?"

"Son, actually," says the young man, with a sheepish grin at Doug's embarrassment. He breezed on, as if he explained his relationship to Will Stanton quite often. "Dad was a bit late in having me. He passed away soon after."

"We received the message from Rhys Evans," Doug replies solemnly. "I'm sorry..."

"Thank you, but it's been years, and I never really knew him," the young man replies. "How is..." he broke off, gesturing towards my bed.

Doug looks back at me, then turns and speaks softly, as if hearing the words may hasten my death. William Stanton clasps the older man's shoulder in sympathy.

It is in that moment, with my son's back turned to me and Will's eyes to me, that our gazes meet and recognition is made.

I drop my eyes down and away first.

"You look tired," Will says to my son, "why don't you go down and get some coffee, walk around a little. It'll help."

"No, I--" Doug protests immediately.

"Doug," I rasp out, "you should walk around a little. You know your arthritis; you've been sitting with me for hours."

Perhaps knowing he is outnumbered, perhaps understanding our unspoken need to talk privately, he leaves without further protest. The door closes behind him with a quiet `snick!' that is like the thump of a guillotine, for all the dead quiet it leaves behind.

Will walks closer.

At five feet away, I can see he has the same hair cut as when he was thirty-five, at four feet I realize the glasses are gone and he looks closer to the Will I had known at twenty-two, at three feet I notice his hair really is back to the sandy brown of twelve, with dark highlights.

I wonder, suddenly, what I look like to him. Old, wrinkled, fragile, more pale than ever. He takes one of my hands and touches the papery, deeply veined skin with reverence, sadness, and gentleness. It is a study of youth against age, health against death, mortal against immortal.

I smile. "I knew you'd come, someday."

He looks pained and guilty, "I didn't."

I nod.

We let the moments pass in silence, both of us wondering where to start, what to say to patch things up. Make everything right again, when time has eroded so much.

"I couldn't tell you," he finally says. "You may have believed me, after a while, but it would have made things different--difficult."

"More difficult, you mean?" I ask. "For me or you?" I am not trying to be cruel, only frank and open with the one person I had always thought was frank and open with me, but I know now is the greatest liar I had ever known and loved.

This is the man whom I thought of as a brother, my best friend, my Best Man at my wedding, and now, on my deathbed, stands before me looking like my youngest grandson. I want the truth. I want to be comforted again. I want him to feel a little of the pain I felt at his absence.

"For me," he answers truthfully. He sits down in the chair Doug had been using and runs a hand over his face. "By the time you got married, I had realized that things had to be this way. People would notice if I stayed in one place too long, so I moved around.

"When Mary got cancer and we thought she would die, she asked me if I believed there was something greater than this world out there. I told her that there was more out there--more than she could ever imagine! Then she asked if I believed we would all be together someday, somewhere. And I lied to her, and said yes."

I frown, unsure of what he is speaking of. Will he never die? Is his price for remaining young to watch all of his loved ones die, knowing where they were going and all the mysteries of the universe beyond our comprehension, without ever getting to touch them himself? Tears form in my eyes.

"Don't worry about me," he shakes his head. "I'll have my rest someday. Just elsewhere from them...and from you."

"Then I'll never see you again?" I ask; the tears slip out, though I don't want them to. I've already come to terms with my death. I've already said goodbye to my family and friends and know that I may never see them again, but somehow this is much, much worse.

"No." Will's eyes tear up and over, as well. "No. Once upon a time there was a chance, but you chose this life. And it was a good choice!" His voice is fierce, if a little gruff with emotion. "You've done so much with your life, Bran, and I'm so proud of you. I couldn't let you know or you may have done things differently, regretted things that you are better off forgetting."

We sit in silence, gripping each other's hands as the weight of years sweeps over us. A lifetime of treasured moments and missed opportunities.

"I still can't help wishing you had been there for so many things," I say with a sigh. My heart and body feel lighter than I remember them ever feeling. There's a strange feeling of distance growing in my head, but I ignore it.

"I was," Will smiles, "I had things to do, but I was always there. Watching from a distance." His voice is quiet. "You're my best friend and always will be, Bran Davies ap Arthur pen Dragon."

He reaches over my head to fiddle with something, the nurse call button, perhaps. My eyes are growing heavy; I shut them for a moment. I hear Doug come back in and Will speaking to him softly, then Doug's voice calling to me, but I'm too far away now.

Away, but not separate, as all things in the weave of deep and high magics are bound together. While I can no longer join the Light in this afterlife, any more than the Dark could rise against the Earth again, I know that Will and I are bound by magics as strong as any. As Merriman had said once, long ago but newly recalled, loving bonds were outside magic and were strong. I was content with that.

Goodbye, my dear friend.

*~~*~~~~*~*~~~~*~~*

End Notes:

Huge thanks to the last-minute betas of this monster: lj user `blueyeti' and `fairestcat'. You were both extremely helpful. And a big thanks to the Yuletide owners--none of this would be possible without you!

Aspen, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

 


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